


A Good Dream

by AlacritiousEidolon (p_3a)



Series: NaNoWriMo 2014 [16]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 18:55:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2632610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p_3a/pseuds/AlacritiousEidolon





	A Good Dream

Wrathion didn't think he'd ever had a good dream. Not truly.

Most of his dreams were made of fire and fury. Of deep, angry rends, splitting and tearing; energy bubbling and bleeding and hardening until he couldn't move. Or worse, leaving him so far apart, adrift on the ocean of his own consciousness with each part of himself as its own boat, that he couldn't even bring about the thought of himself as a whole person.

Some seemed happy. A normal, human childhood. Growing up in a house, with two parents, and maybe a sibling or two at the most. Becoming a Blacksmith. Meeting a handsome friend, falling in love, and living happily ever after in a shack in the woods. Only, monsters like him were created for a purpose. Nobody asks a weapon if it is happy, and waking from a dream where they do can only bring stinging.

The worst are the ones with Anduin Llane Wrynn. He is sweet, and soft, and senstive; and his kisses are like everything Wrathion's soul ever needed to hear: but then they grow harsh and judgemental, and suddenly he is Corastrasza chastising him for existing; or cold and calculating, and suddenly he is the Eye of the Watchers, _ANOMALY EXCISED, ANOMALY EXCISED, ANOMALY EXCISED, COMPILING VIABLE SPECIMEN, COMPILATION COMPLETE_. Sometimes, he is there to the end, and then he becomes withered and grey and Wrathion has to watch him pass between his fingers like so much desert sand.

And sometimes he wakes up before any of that, and remembers only that he and Anduin cannot be together, not as they wish. And that is enough to make it an unhappy dream.

Nobody ever thought to ask the weapon if he was happy. He did not ask to be taken from the sands, like ore; he did not ask to be struck and hammered and folded again and again, to be made strong.

He is here, now, and he is not so monstrous that he would turn his back on the world that needs him.

But he feels he has far more in common with the Knights of the Ebon Blade than those of the Silver Hand; and he doubts they have good dreams, either.


End file.
